A Tale of Smoke and Ashes
by SlytherinCatLover
Summary: In the end, how hard you fight does not matter. War leaves only ashes, tears, and a victor. The rest can only hope to be remembered in legend alone. A prequel to A Song of Ice and Fire. Written from the perspectives of multiple characters, from the Tourney at Harrenhal to the crowning of Robert Baratheon.
1. Prologue

The black stallion stopped before a beautiful girl with wild dark curls and skin as pale as the snow of her homeland. Her soft red lips formed a small "o" of surprise, for though the lady of Winterfell was known to be a beauty, she was also known to be wild as the wolf that was her sigil. Still, the man mounted on the stallion, a man with sad eyes and hair as white as the ivory hilt of his sword, leaned towards Lyanna of House Stark, dressed in blue and silver and ice. He placed the crown on her head with such care and reverence towards the young woman, then rode away in victory, without another word.

That was how it all began.


	2. Smoke (Jaime Lannister)

The air was enveloped the scent of smoke and death. Jaime Lannister fought through it all, choking on the dust that threatened to cut off his lungs. It would not have been his first choice to burn the town, but the residents had refused surrender, so he was left within little choice. Those had been Aerys' orders, and even if there was little love between the aging king and the youngest man of the kingsguard, this was his command. Jaime stumbled through mud, walking calmly through the burning village. It had been a center of rebel tribes, but no more. Even with the flames on either side of him, the air had a cold, wintery tinge to it. Winter had a smell, Jaime swore. It was an unrestrained and dangerous fragrance. The north had a smell to it, though that smell was currently almost drowned out by the smell of smoke and a scent Jaime Lannister had long ago identified as a burning flesh.

Two young men, dressed in rags and rusted mail, ran from behind a burning hut. One held a plain bastard sword, another a common axe. Jaime Lannister drew his sword, regretting what he would have to do, just a bit. They were only boys, younger than him, even, but so be it. The first tried to attack him with a clumsy swing of his sword, but Jaime Lannister threw it off easily, while the boy's sword went flying across the street. Fear filled the boy's eyes, and for a moment, he looked like a prettier version of Tyrion's own brother, though quite a bit taller. Jaime stabbed him in the heart all the same. His companion lay not far away, his eyes glassy and vacant.

Jaime Lannister had been requested to save only one building from the torch. While the screams of frantic woman and the cries of tiny babes cut through the smoky air, causing a sick feeling in Jaime's stomach, King Aerys had commanded that the stone stronghold at the edge of the village be spared. Why? Jaime Lannister supposed he would find out. King Aerys commanded job after job after job. First it was to leave the tourney at Harrenhall, to protect rest of his family, then it was this. He had only just returned to King's Landing when he heard the news. Jaime had been waiting this for all fifteen years of his life, to be a knight of the kingsguard, and he was now a common knight or guardsmen sent on missions to conquer and destroy. His only comfort was that at least here, he held command.

He led three of his most prized soldiers up to the dark fort. While the rest of the village was caught in noise and panic, this place was hauntingly quiet. Jaime Lannister frowned when he found that the heavy steel doors were not locked. It would have been less disconcerting if they were. Inside, the hall was dark, lit by a distant candle. Jaime gestured for his companions to stay behind him a step, and ventured through the dark hallway. He would not believe that this place, whatever it was, was fully deserted. There were people waiting in the shadows, he could almost feel them. He could feel their eyes, but not where they were. When Jaime reached the candle, he picked it from its holder on the great stone wall of the stronghold. Carrying it in his left hand, while the other gripped his sword tightly, he took careful steps down the hall, searching every corner and wall for some sign of someone.

"Behind you, Lannister!" Jaime spun around after he heard a shout behind him. He slashed through the air blindly, the candle dropping to the ground in his haste. His sword clashed with someone's skull, and he heard a sharp crack and a sharper cry as whoever it was fell to the ground. In that case, whoever it was must be short. The candle lay on the ground, a puddle of wax and a flame that was quickly spreading over the straw ground. By the faint light of the multiplying flames, Jaime saw the unconscious man was little more than a boy, with his hair cut short to his scalp and his skin freckled. Before he had any chance to make any more astute observations about the boy, three more men charged out from a converging hallway. By the looks of them, most were not Northmen, but from the south. It was no appropriate time to clarify this, however. Instead, he fended off the first man's attack. His skill with a blade was much better than that of the earlier attacker, but Jaime still sent him tumbling to the ground in only a moment.

The second man was considerably older than Jaime, his hair showing streaks of silver, but he was considerably agile. He gave Jaime a good fight, dodging this way and that from his trained blows. At one point, the man almost knocked Jaime himself down, but he quickly retaliated with a thrust of his sword. The man crumpled to the ground, light leaving his icy eyes.

The final man was styled in the Tyroshi manner, hair and beard dyed purple. However, his garments finally gave Jaime a final clue to where exactly he was. He was dressed in the garb of a pyromancer, black robes and cloak. He fought with two knives instead of a single blade, a manner that Jaime was not so skilled in defending himself against. He soon realized the man had a flare for grace and acrobatics, and this would be his very weakness. When the man attempted to execute a dancer's spin, Jaime's sword caught him in the arm. His strength did not take the man's arm off, but it cut a thick gash, one that would be irrecoverable. Best just to kill him.

"Stop." A voice far sharper than Jaime's own blade cut through the darkness. He froze, watching as a figure in black, his face indecipherable, approached him. The figure stepped lazily on the fire-ravished earth, squashing the flame easily. His face still remained in darkness. "Do not kill that man. They only protect me, they mean no harm to you or your king." It dawned on Jaime that this low voice belonged to a woman, not a man. She stepped quietly from the shadows, and in the dim half light, Jaime could see she was young, only years older than him, with a thin face and sad blue eyes. She was dressed as plainly as her companions, though a single gem glittered at her throat. She was head to toe in dark purple, he could see, from her woolen jerkin and thick gloves to her skirt.

"My lady," Jaime began, sheathing his sword. She clearly meant no harm to them, at least for the time. The Tyroshi stumbled to his feet, applying pressure to the deep wound on his shoulder.

"I am no lady," she told him simply. The girl shooed the wounded Tyroshi away, muttering something in his ear as he went. She stared emotionlessly at the bodies on the ground. "They were good men," She said quietly, but her voice remained neutral. Whoever they were, and whoever she was, she clearly barely grieved for them.

Jaime only shrugged in answer. "Men die. Some good, some bad," he told her. She smiled slightly, but it never quite reached her eyes, which remained cold and melancholy. There was something familiar about those eyes. Jaime felt he had seen those same quiet eyes staring at him from across the hall of Dragonstone.

"That is a wise answer for a knight," she told him, bending down to gently close the eyes of the first boy. "But you have still killed my men and set fire to my town. What am I to do with you?" She sighed, getting to her feet and studying Jaime. He felt her eyes trail so carefully over his thick blond hair and comely face (if he chose to believe his dear sister) and a faint smirk appear on her face when she spied his muscled physique, a look he was all too familiar with. There was something different about her expression, however- almost amused.

But when she spoke of "what am I to do with you," he wondered if she understood who exactly he was and the kind of power he had. Jaime Lannister had only brought a small portion of Aerys' army when he had been sent away. It was not a typical job for a man of the kingsguard, but for one reason or another, Jaime had been assigned to it. "My lady, I fear it is up for us to decide what to do with you and your living man." He reached to his sword belt, pulling a weathered scroll from it. Carefully, he unrolled it, handing the parchment to the girl. She examined it, but her eyes were blank. Slowly, Jaime realized that the girl, even if she was fully grown and appeared wise, could not read. Jaime often forgot that many of the common women, which this girl, despite the jewel at her throat, appeared to be, could not read. He took it back from her without explanation, and she let the parchment go with an almost grateful look in her eyes. "'By order of His Grace Aerys Targaeryen, the town of Kelding will swear allegiance to the Seven Kingdoms and their ruler, or be burned to the ground. His Grace orders that only the stone fortress on the edge of the kingdom shall be spared from the torch. Kill all except the girl.'"

The girl had so far remained almost entirely serious, but her face turned even grimmer at this news. She folded her arms across her chest, tapping her foot almost frantically. "Do... Do you know who we are? Does he?"

Jaime shook his head. The king had given little explanation to why he wanted this fortress. There were only four inhabitants, unless the aforementioned girl was hiding more in the shadows. She had to be important for something, but Jaime had no idea what. "No. Are you the girl?"

She shrugged. "Mayhaps. My name is Isla." It was a northern name, but her accent was indecipherable. It was Westerosi with a touch of the exotic lilt of Braavos and a tinge of the graceful sound of Old Valyrian, Jaime would have known, if he had not been so young and inexperienced.

"Well, my lady Isla, I have been commanded to take you to the king." Jaime told her sharply, but still with the courtesy a knight was expected of. She did not protest as he pinned her arms behind her back, tying them with thick hemp rope, although with more care and softness than he would have with a man. She noticed, her eyes darting to how his work was slow and careful not to cut the circulation from her gloved hands. Halfway through, he realized his mistake. "My lady, I need you to remove your gloves." Anyone could hide a number of weapons or tricks in the sleeves of their gloves.

For the first time, she protested. "Ser, I would not recommend that. For your own sake."

"What do you mean?" Jaime Lannister asked her, trying to puzzle out an answer from her cold expression. She did not have the quiet panic of a woman who was to be deprived of her only weapons, only a dangerous look of warning.

She shook her head, evidently unwilling to say. "Your mad king did not tell you what I am, if even he knows. Clearly he does not want you to know. Just know that what will happen to you and your men if you take these gloves off is far worse than what I could, and what I am not, hiding beneath them." Jaime looked to one of his senior knights in question. This girl Isla put forth a fair argument, but whether it was true was an entirely different question. She had every reason to lie, but if what she said was the truth, and she did have some mysterious powers, then Jaime did not want to make a foolhardy mistake and let her unleash them upon him and his men. He was only sixteen years of age, far too young to die.

"Very well, my lady, but keep in mind that you are against a knight of the kingsguard. If you try to escape custody, we will be given little choice." What puzzled Jaime was that she was so willing to be imprisoned. Typically, people like her went screaming and cursing the king and doing their best to fight their way out. But she remained as stony-faced as always. It made him wonder why in seven hells she would want to be imprisoned by a king. No one wanted that. Unless it was not imprisonment he sought her for, but service. She was in companionship of pyromancers, so perhaps she was a similar sorcerer, or sorceress. Aerys did like his pyromancers.

Jaime escorted her from the fort in silence. When they reached the cold air outside, he noticed her breathe in a sharp intake of breath when she saw the ruin that was her village. "There were good men here, even if they disagreed with your dragon King. Women too, innocent ones. And children."

"I am sorry if you lost family or friends this night," he told her. And he was. Isla would not believe it, but oh, he was. The traitors, their lives had to be finished, but the others? If he had any choice, he would have saved the children, at the very least.

As predicted, she scoffed at that, her face devoid of any humor. "Sorry? You are not sorry." Her tone changed just as quickly, however, resuming its cold and harsh steel. "But I have no family, ser. And no more friends than kin." Still, her eyes scanned over the burned corpses on the ground and the few surviving refugees with regret in her eyes.

Jaime pulled her away from the sight, harsher than he had intended to. For a moment, Isla looked back at him, a look of hostility in her blue eyes that he had not seen before. And for a moment, he saw that though her eyes were not violet like those of the Prince, she had the very same sad, haunting expression in them.

The moment was gone just as fast, as Jaime's squire, a red-faced boy of eleven, ran up to him, breathing heavily. He would not have been the most fit choice for squire, but Jaime saw a tad of himself in the determined boy. With work, he could achieve that sort of greatness. "Ser, your horses ran when the fires reached their stables." He seemed incredibly reluctant to deliver this nerves, perhaps fearful of how the knight would react. Some would beat their squires for bringing such news, but Jaime did frown upon that sort of thing.

Instead, he swore loudly. How in seven hells was he to return this girl and her living Tyroshi companion to the king if he had no horses? That proved a difficult problem for him. The girl, however, looked satisfied for the first time, even the hint of a smug smile on her face. "Ser, you are ever so careless," she told him, and he saw her fingers pry carefully at her glove on her left hand.

Before she could do more, Jaime pulled his sword from his sheath and pressed it to Isla's throat. The squire jumped back in alarm. Jaime took it back. Perhaps the boy was not destined for greatness if he startled at even a simple threat as this. "Try that again, and our king will not be receiving you in one piece after all."

Her face was stony as she told him, "Good ser, you take offense too easily. I only jest, no more." Isla did not appear to jest.

He did not loosen his blade from her pale neck. The gem at her throat glittered red as blood, rather like the ones the queen so often wore. But the queen, beautiful as she was, was not at all like this girl. They had the same eyes, sad and distinctly Valyrian, but while the queen had a commanding presence, she was a gentle soul. This girl... She was anything but. Her gaze was as sharp as a dagger and her words just as.

"I have horses," she hissed. "Let me go and I will show you where they are." Jaime considered his options. She did not seem dishonest, though he trusted her as little as he trusted his men to stay loyal to a boy half their age. If he let her go, she could lead him to the horses. She could also unleash her wrath upon him and his men, whatever her wrath even was. If he did not let her go, he would be stuck without horses. It was all a matter of trust. Jaime was young, and men like him are slow to trust much of anyone, but perhaps this was a test. Everything thus far had been.

Isla looked at him solemnly, speaking the very words he was considering. "I have no wish to hurt anyone, not even a knight with such little honor as yourself. Not yet. Let me go and I will give you horses and I will not harm you or your men. You have my word."

She spoke with such an honesty that he could not help but believe. Either she was an exceptional liar or, for once, one of his prisoners did not wish to escape. "Very well."

Ten minutes after, Jaime was climbing upon one of the infamous horses. They were hardly fine mounts, not like the ones he had lost, but they were not lame nor infirm. They would do. He had tied Isla tightly to the second horse, watching as she shook her head in disappointment at him. He now supposed her age to be about eighteen, for she had a certain wiseness to her voice and her manner, but she still had a glint in her sad eyes rather like the one in those of his lovely sister. Jaime gestured to two of his men to lead the way from the ravaged ruins. He rode at a slow pace at the first, keeping the girl close to him. She was bound to the horse by her legs and around her torso, with only her hands free. How else could she use the reins, even if it did make him uneasy? Isla had sworn not to escape, he could only hope she was true. "You never told me who you are." Her sharp voice cut through the chilled air, startling him from his own thoughts. She was right, however, he had not told her. It had not crossed his mind, really, more than a conscious decision.

"Ser Jaime of House Lannister," he told her simply.

She laughed, but as before, her mirth was without any happiness by the lack of smile on her face. She had a lovely laugh, this Isla, but it was false, just as false as the smiles Jaime gave flirtatious kitchen maids and the sweet kisses his sister gifted to eager lordlings. "A knight of the kingsguard, look at you, and half a boy. How old are you, fourteen?"

Jaime Lannister took offense at that. He was usually told he looked years older than he was, not younger. How could this woman, barely more than a girl herself, mock him like that? "I am fifteen years, and sixteen in only months."

Isla's peculiar melancholy eyes turned even more melancholy at that. "Only a boy would say that, Lannister. Tell me, why is an eager young knight not at Harrenhall? Your type is usually far too eager to prove themselves."

Jaime shook his head, in wonder at how this girl could predict almost the exact cause of his worries. "A long story."

She gestured to her bonds in defeat, shrugging, "In this state, there is little else I can do but listen to an adolescent knight's tales of woe and angst and chivalry. Go on."


	3. Wolf (Lyanna Stark)

Lyanna

Lyanna Stark was the beauty of the north by day, but she sparred with invisible opponents in the candlelight and danced with steel instead of handsome lords. It was a rumor to most, and she intended to keep it that way. She knew that they whispered that she was more wolf than lady, but she cared little. Who the hell cared if she was more wolf than lady? She was of the north, and no woman of the north was a proper lady, not like the southern maidens with their hair of spun gold and their sweet smiles.

The princess of Winterfell spun in time to a muted melody, delivering blow after blow to those that chided her because she did not ride side saddle or because she went hunting with the men. The maids that made her change her gown because she had gotten just a speckle of mud on it. The lords that said she ought not to shoot a bow and arrow because women were to marry, not shoot. The washer women that laughed when she walked by in her rusty mail and loose breeches to spar with her brother Ned when their father was out on other business.

She delivered the killing blow to all of them.

And then she fought off the next army of men and women who tried to tell her what to do and who to be. Though Lyanna had had no training with a sword, her brother Ned had taught her a couple simple movements many years before, when she was only twelve. The rest, she had learned from watching Brandon and Ned and Benjen spar. They never saw her, sitting at the window of a tower, overlooking the courtyard. Then, when she returned to her own chambers, Lyanna would do her best to copy their moves. Although she never felt particularly graceful, she was fairly confident that she could hold her own against half the guardsmen in Winterfell. Not that she would ever get a chance. She would be locked tightly away until she was to marry. There would be no freedom to run and to fight for her.

The women of House Stark had always had an air of wildness about them, legend said. Some of them were more warriors than ladies, even, but not the only daughters of the generation. Lyanna Stark would always have to be more lady than wolf, but she could still practice her blade work in secret and ride with her brothers and shoot a bow and arrow in the courtyard.

In the harsh cold of winter, all had to learn to adapt. Lyanna Stark would simply learn that.

"Lyanna! Brandon's been off looking for you," she spun around when she heard Ned's voice through the locked door. While Brandon held a wary disapproval for her behavior, sweet Ned regarded her whims with respect. As for their father, if he knew she kept a sword in her traveling trunk, his wrath would be horrid. For years, she had hidden her blade between layers of silvery gowns and flimsy petticoats. She had fought in the darkness of her room, and her father, more preoccupied with other matters, rarely called on her.

Collapsing against the heavy door in exhaustion, Lyanna muttered, "Tell my dear brother Brandon I will be there when I please." Her brother could wait. Besides, she was hardly in a fit state to speak with him now. Her braid was tangled and her makeup streaked by sweat. The winter maid looked more like a common serving girl or even a wildling in this state. On top of all that, she wore only woolen breeches and a linen tunic. She had only just returned to Winterfell, she did not need more whispers. There were already enough after the handsome dragon prince chose to give her the crown of roses instead of his lovely wife. She still had it in her traveling chest, though the blooms were now turning gray and wilted, instead of the rare midnight blue that the roses were once. Lyanna still held tight to it. Why? She had not the slightest idea. She was betrothed to another, Rhaegar Targaeryen would never be her groom.

Slipping on a gown the very color of those peculiar roses, Lyanna strode from her room. She ignored the suppressed laughter of two house maids at the sweat still glistening upon her brow. They had no right to laugh at her. She knew she could silence their mockery with but a haughty glare, but there was no need. Women would gossip, and if it gave them a smile in such dark times, then she would not take that from them.

Lyanna Stark entered the main hall of Winterfell looking like the highborn lady that she was, not the headstrong little wolf woman that people called her. Though Lyanna Stark did love riding and fighting and all sorts of unladylike things, she still would smile at the sight of a pretty gown and laugh with her friends and her lady's maids over handsome lords and flirtatious knights. She was a firm believer that she did not have to choose between being wild and headstrong and being a lady of the north. She would simply be a lady who only did what she pleased.

The dining hall was empty but for Brandon Stark sitting at one end, along with their father and Ned at the other. Lyanna took her seat somewhere in the middle of the vast hall, smoothing out her skirts and smiling amiably. In the company of all of her family, she did her best to play at being sweet and innocent. When she was just with her brothers or her maids, then she could laugh raucously and joke of improper subjects and ride as fast as the wind upon her silver stallion. Even here, however, she sometimes forgot the mask that she was intended to wear.

"Father," she nodded sweetly at the current lord of the north. "My sweet brothers," she gifted both Brandon and Ned with a small smile. As for Benjen, no one knew where he was off to. He was still a boy, eleven years of age and just as merry. He still had freedom with few responsibilities, though he would be lucky to keep such a gift for more than a year.

"You took your sweet time," Brandon muttered. Her eldest brother had been in a foul mood ever since Rhaegar Targaryen gave her the crown of roses. While both Ned and Benjen were mild-mannered and calm, the other Stark children had horrid tempers, and didn't Lyanna know it. Winter was, after all, the harshest season.

"I always do," she replied sharply. Brandon was kind, and she knew he loved her well, but sometimes they argued endlessly. "I cannot be ready at any moment that my dear brother chooses that he wishes to speak with me."

"Both of you," Ned interrupted, in that solemn voice of his. He was far more levelheaded than the other three children of House Stark, a rarity for the typically wild members of the age-old family. His words were a warning without malice, as typical of the middle boy of Winterfell.

Both Lyanna and Brandon fell silent; Lyanna because she was so fond of her brother and Brandon because he was clearly too tired to argue anyhow. "Our brother is to meet his bride at Riverrun, leaving on the morrow. He brought you here to bid you a temporary goodbye, that is all." Ned told his sister, mild mannered as always. Sometimes, Lyanna secretly thought her second older brother would make a far better lord than his elder. Although Brandon was fearless and strong, he was also hot tempered and distrusting to a fault. Ned was more diplomatic and honorable, even at a mere nineteen years. Lyanna herself was only fifteen, but by that time, she was expected to have lost the bright mischief that youth allowed her, replaced by a quiet respect for men and her elders.

"What about your dear Lady Dustin?" Lyanna asked her elder brother with a scoff. This Lady Dustin had been a dear lover of Brandon only a year before. She had never found her particularly pretty, but she supposed that shrewd face could be endearing with the fine curves that came along with it. She did have fine hair as well, black as night and those lush curls framing her face and those big brown eyes. Her eyes really were too big for her face, Lyanna had always thought. Her brother deserved much better than Lady Dustin, in her opinion. She was far too hot tempered. Brandon needed a sweet bride, calm as a soft summer wind.

Brandon got to his feet in anger, knocking over his glass of wine. "Lady Dustin is not "my dear". Tell me, Lyanna, how is your sword fighting going?" Granted, Lyanna's words had been cruel, though she had barely even considered their consequences at the time. Lord Rickard knew nothing of Lady Dustin, and certainly not that she was the pretty little thing that had claimed Brandon's virginity. Lyanna did not know how in seven hells that happened, only that it most certainly had. She had a talent for sneaking here and there without being heard. It had been easy to hear Brandon speaking of it to the children of a visiting lord. But Lord Rickard also knew nothing of the sword that Lyanna Stark kept in her room.

Lord Rickard, who had stayed silent before then, looked up from the table in suspicion. "I know this Lady Dustin, but why in seven hells would she care if Brandon married? And Lyanna, your brother speaks of iron blades. Have I not, as your father, forbid you from such things?"

Lyanna looked to Brandon in silent deliberation. After a moment, they had formed an unspoken agreement that Lyanna would say she only jested, as would her elder brother. Despite their disagreements, Lyanna and Brandon were brother and sister, and they held an unspoken way of communicating. "Lady Dustin and my sweet brother played at being lovers when they were young children, many years ago. I tease him of it often," She could only hope that her explanation was convincing enough. It was not entirely a lie, only a deliberate omission of more unseemly facts. When Brandon had been a ward to the Dustin household, he had become lovely friends with Barbrey Dustin in their childhood. More than friends, as they grew older. Brandon insisted that she was not just lovely, but also intelligent and cunning, and Lyanna supposed that would explain it.

Lord Rickard nodded understanding with an uncharacteristic subtle smile. Lyanna breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He had bought into it, so perhaps her skills of deceit were better than she had believed. "But what is this I hear of sword fighting, still?"

Lyanna looked at Brandon expectantly, dark eyebrows raised. He sighed, "Once again a jest. My dear sister often said if she was not a lady, the weapon she would use would be a sword."

This lie was not bought into quite so quickly by the Lord of House Stark. "Is that all? Lyanna, and you do not keep such a weapon in your possession?"

She saw in her head the blade that lay in her room at that very moment. It was not a heavy sword, one she had found in the castle armory. The hilt was gilded simply in silver, with a tarnished wolf on the end. It was hardly a weapon for a Stark, but it was still a weapon. She had often dreamed of a proper sword, one made only for her by the castle smith, but had never dared to ask for one. "No, Father. I wish I would be permitted to keep one, but I suppose I can only be grateful for what you have given me: an archer's bow and a fine stallion to match my brother's. I would not ask for more, even if I did dream once of a steel blade." These words seemed to convince Rickard Stark. If he had only known his daughter better, something he never had much bothered in, he would have known how uncharacteristic this display of subservience and respect was for the only daughter of House Stark. In fact, Brandon was fighting laughter. Her eldest brother had always been, behind his fiery and earnest demeanor, merry and full of life.

Lord Rickard nodded, but he seemed disapproving. For what, Lyanna had no idea. "You are both fully grown. Such serious jests as these would be acceptable when you were children, but you are men and women now. Do try to agree." Both Brandon and Lyanna hung their heads in supposed guilt. Lyanna's was only half manufactured, though she could not speak for her brother. He was right. She supposed she would never grow out of her fiery temper, but there was no need to quarrel with her brother like they were jealous little children.

Brandon quickly broke the silence by smoothly switching the subject. "While I am away, Lyanna, perhaps become more acquainted with the idea of marriage. Your marriage will likely be scheduled by the year's end. Stay away from handsome dragons, as well," Brandon told her. At his last sentence, Lyanna protested.

"Brandon, I did not ask for what Rhaegar did. He is a married man, it was only a flattering gesture, no more. Let it be," she tried to keep her voice quiet and controlled. In the past months, at both of her brother's bequests, she had done her best to keep from letting her wild temper flare. She was a woman grown, she did know the truth of that, and at least in public, she had to pretend to be mild mannered. Try, at least. Besides, the louder she protested, the more suspicious her family would become. The very truth of it was, Lyanna could not get his face from her mind. She could not erase his light hair and how it fell in waves around a chiseled face. She could not erase the Targaryen eyes, so sad and that unusual shade of violet. But if Brandon or her father ever guessed how much she saw his face in her mind, without even trying, they would scorn her. Ned might understand, but not them.

"Very well. But keep well away from him in the future," Brandon warned her, a dangerous expression on his face. "You are betrothed to the stag lord, and do not forget it." She had not. Robert Baratheon was a fine man, in looks alone. He was far stronger than the dragon lord, for while Rhaegar was slim and fine-boned, Robert was wide-shouldered and muscular. He had an impressive mane of chestnut hair and a beard to match and the stormy blue eyes of the Baratheons. He also was kind to her, and, as far as Lyanna could tell, enamored with her. He was every bit a gentleman, with his simple manners instead of Rhaegar's admirable eloquence. He was a great lord as well, with a powerful seat. What more could she wish for in a lord husband, if Lyanna was the sort of woman that wished for husbands at all?

"Lyanna!" From Brandon's irritated tone, it sounded as if this was not the first time he had attempted to get her attention. She supposed she had gotten so lost in her own thoughts that she had not heard her brother's irritated voice. "Lyanna, I said that with any luck, the wedding will be here before winter comes." There had been word from the wall that after so many years, winter would be here. Lyanna had never seen a winter, and some wild part of her could not wait for the snow to dust her hair and pile around the castle. She loved the cold and she loved the harshness of the north.

"Does your bride not want a wedding in the snow? I've always thought that would be fanciful," Lyanna teased Brandon, though it was true. She had always thought all that white and all that snow would be the perfect backdrop for a wedding. Of course, she would be getting a proper southern wedding instead. Lyanna dreaded the marriage, in some ways. She was fond enough of Robert, and perhaps in time she would learn to love him, but a southern lady was not permitted to go out riding alone and to spend days in the forest, just alone.

"My bride is a trout, not a wolf. Catelyn Tully, the oldest child of Riverrun." Brandon told her with the hint of a jest.

"And the most beautiful, the word is. Do not get me wrong, dear brother, I wish you and your red haired bride all the happiness." Although Lyanna's voice was laced with false earnestly, her words were actually true. She had no ill wishes for her brother no more than she did for the lady of Rivverun. Brandon shook his head anyway, a hint of irritation on his face, but got to his feet, signaling the conversation was over. Rickard Stark stood and left the hall in silence, and Ned, his equally quiet son, followed him. Brandon lingered, and so did Lyanna. She made her way towards the edge of the hall, but before she reached the door, Brandon stopped her with a firm hand on her arm.

"Lyanna... Be careful," he told her, a peculiar expression on his face. It was almost tender, an emotion that the oldest wolf rarely showed. Lyanna responded with a soft smile, her gray eyes twinkling.

"Brandon, I am always careful," she told him.

Brandon Stark laughed, though Lyanna did not quite get his intended joke. "No, you are anything but. You are a wolf, Lyanna, and a wild one at that. We are not careful."

With that, Brandon left the hall in silence. Just as he slipped through the door, however, Lyanna called out to him, "Tell your Tully bride that the wild wolf girl would like to meet her very much. Do you think she will like me?" She jested, but at the same time, it would be nice to have a sister, or a sister-in-law, at last.

"Lyanna... Everyone does." For once, Brandon Stark smiled slightly. With that, Brandon Stark left the hall to go prepare to travel to Rivverun.


End file.
